


Getting it Right

by Lhugy_for_short



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bodyswap, Fluff and Humor, Light Angst, M/M, memory sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-07 21:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19858435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lhugy_for_short/pseuds/Lhugy_for_short
Summary: With certain destruction at the hands of their respective head offices all but guaranteed, Crowley and Aziraphale have elected to chose their faces wisely. Unfortunately for them, the disguises only go skin deep. In order to properly fool Heaven and Hell, they'll have to learn to see from one another's perspectives - by experiencing the past through each other's eyes.(A slightly different approach to Aziraphale-and-Crowley-through-time)





	Getting it Right

**Author's Note:**

> Yes!! Officially my second fic contribution to this amazing fandom, but hopefully not the last. To be honest, I'm really nervous about posting this. But thanks to the consumption of _quite enormous amounts of alcohol_ tonight, I am also unable to stop myself from doing it anyway.  
> I hope you enjoy this at least a little bit! What started as an attempt at writing these two faffing around in each other's bodies somehow developed into a more serious (sometimes) character study. And also ducks. Never forget the ducks. They're what water slides off of.

"What, in the name of _all that is holy,_ am I wearing?"

The words that came out of Aziraphale's mouth were strangled with horror. Well, technically, they came out of _Crowley's_ mouth, but only in the physical sense. The angel was temporarily inhabiting the demon's body, after all, just as Crowley had temporarily taken up residence in his. It was part of the plan - not _THE_ plan, of course, but one of their own devising - to which they had carefully discussed and agreed upon certain boundaries before actually making the switch. At least, that’s what Aziraphale had _thought_. 

This was before his own likeness had turned up at the edge of St. James' Park dressed in what, in his opinion, looked exactly like a repurposed throw rug. 

Crowley-on-the-inside at least had the decency to look scandalized. "It's called fashion, angel. Welcome to the twenty-first century. Do you have any idea how hard it was to find one of these in your particular shade of _boring,_ _beige tartan_."

"No," Aziraphale hissed in his best snake-demon impression. "And I don't care, because that isn't the point. The point, if you recall, is that we're supposed to be acting natural."

Beneath the oversized rug-scarf draped around his shoulders, Crowley shrugged. "I just figured your wardrobe could do with a few upgrades. You can't really expect me to spend however long we're stuck like this wearing a bow tie."

"Of course I can! Look, I'm keeping up my end of the deal." The angel tugged at the lapels of the tight, black jacket he wore (which was far too hot for the season, but had anyone heard him complain?) for emphasis. "The least you can do is refrain from meddling with my clothes, lest Gabriel - or one of _your_ people - notices anything out of place." 

The request was simple enough. Yet Crowley-as-Aziraphale let out a melodramatic sigh, as though he'd just been asked by the Almighty to stay late on a weekend to redesign the entire cosmos. Even the wave of his hand when he miracled the scarf away was exaggerated for effect. "...You're no fun."

“Well, we’re not exactly playing a game, Crowley. Hiding in plain sight is dangerous.”

“I know that.” Still, he was pouting in a very un-Aziraphale-like way as he leaned back against a fence post. “Thought it looked nice on you, ‘z all.” 

Aziraphale narrowed yellow eyes behind dark sunglasses. No, no he wasn’t going to fall for it this time. Absolutely not. 

“I mean, when was the last time you treated yourself to something besides a new book, hm?” Crowley continued, undeterred. “I wanted to get you something nice, a little thank-you gift, y’know. Make you feel appreciated.” 

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake... _._ ” 

“No, no, ‘m serious, angel. You deserve it. Cross m’heart, I was only thinkin’ of you.” 

_Hell’s bells_ , he was weak to this. It was a trap, naturally, because Crowley was hardly ever up to any actual good. But try as he might to resist, this trap was one that Aziraphale was doomed to stumble right into, over and over again, for all of eternity. He sighed. “I suppose you’re going to tell me that ridiculous scarf wasn’t your only little addition to my wardrobe, then?” 

And… _ah_ , yes. There it was. It hardly mattered whose face Crowley was wearing, that _smirk_ belonged 100 per cent to him. "I...may have taken some artistic liberties with the contents of your sock drawer."

"That does it," Aziraphale huffed, reaching inside his jacket suddenly if only to distract from the heat he felt rise to his face. His fingers tingled as they passed _through_ his inner pocket, and came out again with a neat, crisp bow tie pinched between them. 

Round eyes blinked owlishly. "Where were you keeping that?"

"Come here, Crowley. No, no, I must insist, you've brought this upon yourself. Stand still a moment, there's a dear."

It was admittedly an odd sensation, a bit of an out-of-body experience, to stand in front of himself and see, as it were, from Crowley's perspective. To see his own mouth twitching at the corners as together they worked up his shirt collar, or how his own eyes appeared to be looking everywhere _but_ at him. Yet while Crowley grumbled occasionally under his breath, to his credit he otherwise managed to behave long enough for Aziraphale to finish tying the bow.

It was only when the angel leaned in close to straighten it that Crowley caught the scent of betrayal. 

"Wait a tick," he frowned, suspicion already dripping from his lips. He took another sniff. "Are you…wearing _cologne_? You are, aren't you!" 

The angel went very, very still. 

"I, well…." 

"A-ha! I knew it!" Crowley-as-Aziraphale's face broke into another grin, this time lit with petty triumph. "'Lead us not into temptation, O Lord' 'les of course it smells of lilac and elderberry, eh, angel?" 

"Actually, it’s a lavender base, it's new. A-and anyway, I only used a splash, so…."

"So you thought, worst case scenario, you'd just turn up in Hell and no one'd even notice? That Beelzebub wouldn't _smell_ right through our whole stinking plan?" The sarcasm in his voice faded, gave way to something more exasperated, but not wholly unkind. "Let's face it, angel. We're both shit at this." 

They sunk down as one onto the nearest bench. Sat in silence for a long moment, watching the ducks paddle from one end of the river to the other and back again. Swimming the same loop over and over, unaware that just on the banks of their home, an angel and a demon were contemplating their inevitable destructions. 

(Had the ducks realized, of course, they might have offered the two some advice. After all, ducks are masters in the art of acting, better even than pigeons of the park-dwelling variety, as they’ve been scamming people out of food for centuries. The ducks in St. James’ had, over the years, eaten from the hands of literal royalty, charmed their fair share of suave double agents, and even fooled a rather obvious assassin into giving up his entire lunch.

As it was, however, the ducks decidedly ignored the two sulking figures on the bench that day, passing them by in favor of an old woman further down the banks who had brought a tin of bread crumbs.)

"So. What do you propose we do?" Aziraphale ventured, once he’d made up his mind to break the silence at last. “We can’t simply ignore Agnes’ prediction, can we? I mean, she was right about everything else.” 

“ _Ugh._ She’s right about this, too, I feel it. Both Heaven and Hell are restless, and they’re looking for a couple of poor suckers to make examples out of.” The low growl he released was far more Crowley-like than anything that should have come from such angelic lips. “Would be nice to know when this’s all supposed to hit the fan, but I guess that’d be too _bloody_ much to ask of a dead witch, now wouldn’it.” 

“ _Crowley_.” 

“If only we had more time, angel,” he said urgently. “Time to study each other, to get it right.” 

A slightly offended scoff. “Six thousand years wasn’t long enough for you to ‘study’ me?”

“ _Please_ , angel, I studied you plenty. But we weren’t together every single minute of every single century, were we? Hell, I spent most of the Dark Ages getting drunk in the moors, if you remember.” 

“Remember…?” Of course he remembered - it was very hard to forget dragging a massive, inebriated serpent out of a bar fight against superstitious Scotsmen - but something else about Crowley’s words had struck him as significant in the moment. _More time...remember…. Memories!_ “That’s it Crowley!”

“What’s what?” asked the demon, not quite following such an impressive feat of mental gymnastics. 

“Memories! Don’t you see? If we share some of our memories, just a few practical ones, we would both be much better equipped to assume each other’s…. Well, _lives_.” Excitedly, Aziraphale thrust out his hand for Crowley to take. “Go on, I’ve already picked mine out.”

“Hold on, are you certain this is a good idea?”

“Of course! Probably.” Beneath the dark jacket, the angel shrugged. “Should be fine. I mean, they’re just memories, what’s the worst that could happen?” 

“I have no doubt we’ll find out soon enough.” Crowley did a thing with his mouth, a little half-frown that could have been annoyance or maybe uncertainty, but which Aziraphale was embarrassed to admit looked all too natural on himself. Then the demon closed his eyes, and thought in silence for a long heartbeat. Looking deeper and deeper inward, searching his memories for the most defining moments of his character throughout history: his first trip to Cuba; the invention of decaf coffee; practically all of the 1980s. So many good ones to choose from, but Aziraphale was waiting. Crowley had to decide.

 _I'm gonna regret this_ , he remembered thinking, just as he grasped the angel's hand and felt reality slip away. 

* * *

* * *

**[4004 BC, a certain garden]**

It was dark. That was the first thing Crowley noticed. 

The second thing he noticed was that he could make out a soft light coming from up ahead; a faint, oddly familiar glow beyond a dense brush of trees and vines. Where it touched, Crowley saw flowers opening their petals, stretching upwards as if to drink in the light. Dark soil began to break apart, to churn as hundreds, thousands of blades of grass awoke beneath it. The soft glow seemed to be breathing life right into the ground, urging the garden to grow, _grow_ and _holy shit,_ Crowley suddenly knew exactly where he was! 

He'd been here before, more years ago than he could really count. It looked different now that he walked upright rather then slithered through the underbrush, but there was no mistaking the _oldness_ of the place now that he'd sensed it. The light, though, that was new. Or maybe he'd just never had the chance to see it before in person. 

Creeping forward, quiet so as not to disturb the peaceful serenity of the moment, the demon made his way closer to the source of the glow. It radiated out from a cozy clearing, where he was somehow unsurprised to find three figures he knew well. 

Two of them slept. Their bodies were still fragile, yet beautiful in their design, and they lay together upon the ground as lovers might. His arm around her waist, her hand upon his cheek. And over them like a guardian stood an angel. 

No, not just any angel. It was Aziraphale, his skin and robes emanating with light as soft as that of stars reflecting off the moon. He was…stunning. Crowley stared so long he forgot it was even possible to breathe. 

"Rest now, sweet ones. For on your shoulders you carry the dawn," came the angel's voice, gentle as if singing to a child. He waved his hand, and more grass grew to pillows beneath the sleeping figures' heads. "Rest, have no fear. No harm shall come to you here."

Crowley was snapped out of his trance. 'No harm?' Warm and tempting were the promises of Heaven, but he knew better than most that they weren't to be trusted. Sure, humanity would come to no harm - if spending all of one's short, bleak life in a tiny little garden, unable to comprehend the greater world, could be considered anything but torture. 

Crowley knew Aziraphale didn't see it the same way, of course. But it seemed typical of an angel - a _principality,_ no less - to buy the bullshit and go around fermenting love in places that really just needed a good wake up call. 

He started to turn away, to move onto the next memory and put this goody two-shoes angel business behind him, when something else caught his ear. It sounded like a gasp, only lighter, chiming as if with starlight on the air. Curious, the demon peered again into the clearing. 

Eve had shifted in her sleep, her delicate fingers sliding down from the other's face to seek out his hand instead. They clasped together, such a simple gesture, and yet Aziraphale's frame had gone completely still above them. The change in the angel's expression was subtle at first. His lips parted, his cheeks flushed a charming shade of pink, reminiscent of that first time he’d looked upon the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in its completion. 

It was the look he gave whenever the humans, in all their tiny, finite wisdom, managed to surprise him with something truly beautiful. 

This time, Aziraphale was witnessing the birth of love. Pure love, the kind that came into being without the interference of Heaven or Hell. One that served no greater purpose for either side, but which simply... _was_. And he had chosen to share this moment, this memory, with Crowley. 

The demon looked from the sleeping forms on the grass to the face of his angel standing above them. Watched, with a hitch of his own breath, the single, shining tear that rolled down Aziraphale’s cheek, stirring in him the strangest impulse to reach out and brush it away. 

But this memory was almost at its end, and there was more he had yet to see. 

Crowley turned, dragged the sleeve of his jacket roughly across his face, and stepped through the first thing he saw: a door. 

* * *

**[1975, California]**

Aziraphale was rather surprised to find himself standing, of all places, in a kitchen. 

For one thing, he’d rarely ever seen Crowley take much interest in food beyond the occasional sugary treat. For another, this particular kitchen appeared to see less use as a kitchen and more as a workshop. There were bits of machine guts scattered across the counter, a myriad of wires and circuit boards leading right into the back of a boxy-looking display screen. Even Aziraphale, who had never been a fan of modern technology so to speak, wondered if such an ancient machine could still be persuaded to work. 

Footsteps just outside the kitchen caught the angel by surprise. He shuffled out of the way as a man breezed past - he was tall, slender, with dark hair - followed not long after by a more familiar face. 

The angel breathed a sigh that might have been relief. Crowley looked as fascinating as ever, his auburn hair left long and wavy down to the open collar of his black shirt. His jeans, which Aziraphale couldn’t recall ever having seen him wear before, flared at the bottom into neat little bells, and he chose to hide his eyes behind a pair of thick-brimmed sunglasses that took up half of his face. 

As always, the angel thought, the look suited him. 

“I’m tellin’ you, man, it’s not gonna work,” the other fellow, the one Aziraphale didn’t recognize, sighed into a bottle of beer. His accent said they were far, far from England. “I can’t sell machines if I don’t have ‘em, and I won’t have ‘em if I can’t get the damned investors on board. ‘A computer in every home?’ Hah! Those assholes actually _laughed_ at me, A.J.!” 

“So?” Crowley sauntered toward the counter, pushing the blank-screened monitor aside to make space to sit. “To Hell with ‘em.” 

The man scoffed. “Yeah? Then who’s gonna pay for all this, huh? _You_ ? That weird lady who thinks she’s some kinda witch? I need _real_ money, A.J., or all this hard work is….” He made a tasteless gesture with two fingers pressed to his own temple, which left Aziraphale shaking his head. 

From the counter, Crowley - or, rather, _A.J. -_ snatched up a piece of fruit from a basket nearby, and began to polish it on his lapel as he spoke. “Y’know what I think? I think you’ve lost sight of the bigger picture here. Computers? Everyone’ll be doing computers soon enough. _You’re_ here to sell them the future of technology.” 

“Right,” came the sarcastic reply. “Those, uh, what’d you call ‘em? Handhelds? Screens small enough to fit in a pocket? It’s crazy, man.” 

The demon tossed his apple in the air, caught it, and smiled. “Not just screens. Whole supercomputers. Music, pictures, communication - entire lifelines tethered to a single device that goes everywhere you do. Think of the possibilities. Think of the _profit_.” 

Slowly, dark eyebrows joined together as the man considered his words. He took another long sip of beer, then, “You’re saying I should take these… wacked out ideas to the investors?” 

“I prefer to call them _innovations_.”

“I would need a timeline. A-and some kind of...brand, something they can trust, like….” 

A crunching sound cut him off. Crowley - _A.J._ \- swallowed a particularly juicy bite of apple, and tossed the rest to the man at the table. “Eh, you’ll think of something,” the demon smiled, before hopping down from the counter himself and turning to leave. “I’ll be back in a couple months to check in. Oh, and Steven?” 

The young, dark-haired man looked up from the fruit he was holding. “What?” 

“Best not to tell that friend of yours about our little meetings. I’d hate to see anything ever come between the two of you.” 

And then he was gone, leaving Aziraphale alone in the kitchen with the strange young man, a slightly nibbled-on apple, and a sneaking suspicion that he had Crowley to blame for the eventual invention of digital books. 

* * *

**[1890, somewhere near Paris]**

Outside, it was snowing. Crowley had never liked the stuff. Too cold, too damp, and it did awful things to leather if one was out in it for too long. 

But this was a memory, and as such he couldn’t actually _feel_ the chill of the wind or the white flakes landing on his bare cheeks. He was far more interested, actually, in the candlelight spilling out of the window of the cozy-looking villa up ahead. It seemed a strange place for Aziraphale to bring him, especially considering how the angel loved to spend winters curled up at home with his cozy little books. Not halfway across Europe on business with…. Oh. 

_Oh_. 

Crowley pressed his scowl as close to the window pane as he could physically get. 

There were books, alright. Shelves upon shelves of them, nearly as many as Aziraphale owned himself. Open manuscripts covered the low table in front of the room’s singular sofa, an ornate affair that looked both comfortable and inviting, and the place was lit with just the right amount of lamps. Seated on the aforementioned sofa were two men - one, broad but elegant, with dark, wavy hair framing his round face - and Aziraphale, looking right at home in a beige sweater vest and his favorite tartan bow tie.

He was flushed, though from the wine or from the other man’s hand on his knee, Crowley could only wildly speculate. 

The angel said something, and the man laughed. _Damn!_ This was no good, he couldn’t hear a thing through the blasted window. Maybe if he just…. 

The pane slid up a half-inch, and soft music flooded out into the cold night. 

“Honestly, when I wrote you that letter, I never expected to get a reply,” Aziraphale said, absolutely gushing. “Imagine my surprise! And an invitation to boot.” 

“Come, now. How in Heaven’s name could I turn away such a prolific fan?” The hand on the angel’s leg tightened ever so subtly. “Your letter spoke volumes to me. Inspired me, even, and I knew in that moment that I simply had to meet you in person.” 

“Oh, Mr. Wilde, you’re too kind.” 

“Please, call me Oscar.” 

_Crrrk!_ Thin cracks spread across the window from under Crowley’s fingertips, ghosting like veins right up to the very top of the glass. 

Not the least bit aware, Aziraphale took another sip from his wine glass before picking up a stack of papers from the table. “Do you mind terribly if I…?”

“Be my guest, Mr. Fell. I would be honored.” 

“Thank you so much.” He shifted closer to the edge of the cushions, eyes bright with wonder as he began to pour over the words on the page. Deeper and deeper, getting lost in the yet-unpublished genius of an exceptionally creative mind. Occasionally he would pause, whisper something too soft to catch, then go back to reading as if he didn’t notice the utterly smitten expression on the other man’s face.

Crowley noticed, though. How could he miss it, the way this jerk was so obviously fawning over Aziraphale? How could _anyone_ miss it? It'd take a complete fool not to see the signs, Crowley muttered to himself, as the snow sizzled to steam in the air around him. 

* * *

**[1926, Birmingham]**

Nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared Aziraphale to step through the veil between memories right into the backseat of a speeding car. 

Speeding was perhaps an understatement, actually. More like 'barreling treacherously down a narrow road at least 40 miles per hour over the speed limit in the dark of night.' Looming shadows that might have been trees whipped past the windows of the car, and Aziraphale clutched the seat in front of him out of instinct. 

"S-slow down, Crowley! Are you trying to get us killed?" 

Of course his friend couldn't hear him. This was a memory, not the present, though that fact did little to still the angel's suddenly pounding heart. No, Crowley could not hear him, nor, if the fierce grin on his face was any indication, did he have any intention of slowing down. And for good reason, it seemed. 

Something hit the back windscreen. _Ping! Ping!_ The sound ricocheted off the glass like tiny silver hammers. _Ping! Pin---n-n-nnnn-ng!!!_

Startled, Aziraphale whirled around in the backseat, only to find two sets of headlights racing after them. In the dark, he could just make out the shape of a person hanging from a passenger-side window. The figure wore a brimmed hat, and held a brand new beretta cocked against his arm. 

Oh, goodness. This was a car chase. 

“Persistent lot, aren’t you?” Crowley mocked from the front seat. Despite the engine of the car already roaring at its limits, by some force of demonic will he continued to push it even harder. "Come on, darling. You've made it this far, don't give up on me now." 

_Darling?_ The pieces snapped into place. Suddenly, it all made sense. This wasn’t just a thrilling chase in any old car - this was _THE_ car! Now Aziraphale understood why Crowley had chosen to show him this memory, why it was so important. 

Speechless, he settled back against the leather cushions to simply observe. 

"Tell you what, darling," Crowley was crooning over the sounds of both pistons and rifles firing all around. "You get us out of here in one piece, and, on my honor as a demonic serpent, I'll take damned good care of you. For all eternity, even, which I guarantee is a very, _very_ long time for a car." 

Sure enough, the rattling gunfire slowly began to fade into the distance behind them. Yet while the cars in pursuit surrendered to the limitations of human engineering, Crowley's Bentley continued to fly through the night like a beast out of Hell. Unyielding, indomitable, just like its master. 

Eventually, once the danger had passed and no one was left to keep shooting at them, they pulled off the road into a quiet, secluded patch of forest. There, Crowley brought the engine to a purring stop. Took a long moment to run his fingers over the steering wheel, eyes unreadable behind dark lenses. No one but Aziraphale could have felt, without having to actually see, the emotion written there. It was love. 

He'd always known Crowley loved his car, of course. He’d sensed it dozens of times over the decades, usually in the form of a strong pulse of _pride_ whenever he successfully glared away a ding or dent from the flawless paint job. But this...this _feeling_ was something else entirely. There was a certain affection in the way he patted the dashboard, a fondness with which he opened the driver’s side door and let his hand linger on the frame. Crowley stepped out into the shadows like a valiant knight dismounting his loyal steed, and smiled as if everything were suddenly right in his world. 

Aziraphale watched all this happen without daring to take a single breath. It wasn’t just the significance of the moment that had left him so overwhelmed, nor even the sight of the demon’s heart left so uncharacteristically bared inside his memory. No, what truly struck him was the realization that he was already so familiar with the feeling Crowley was radiating. Somehow, he’d always just assumed it was the demon’s normal state of being, simply a part of him like an arm or a leg or a scaly tail (when he felt like it, of course). 

Obvious as it was, the angel had never understood until Crowley’s love was directed at, well….

Something else. 

He fumbled for the handle on the other side of the car. Everything was getting fuzzy, the forest and the Bentley and even Crowley starting to blur around the edges of his vision. Maybe the memory was almost over, or maybe it was the tears. Either way, Aziraphale staggered backwards from the scene, feet moving unsteadily in the general direction of _not here, not just yet._ Until at last he reached behind himself to grasp the knob of a very ancient metaphysical door. 

The angel pushed. The door didn’t budge. He turned around, tried again, even frowned at it, but still it held fast. Strange. Whatever lay beyond the door was a memory Crowley clearly intended for him to see, but one that he had perhaps forgotten to unlock. That, or it just hadn’t been opened for a very long time. 

Cautiously, Aziraphale glanced back at Crowley, who was busy rubbing bullet holes out of the car with his shirt sleeve, and decided that the only way to go was forward. 

He threw his entire weight at the door then, shoulder first, and heard it fly open with a deafening crack of thunder.

* * *

**[1947, Paris]**

At least, Crowley thought, he was indoors this time. The hallway was well-lit, sparsely furnished, and lined to the teeth with armed guards in dark green uniforms. Military? Maybe Area 51? The place reeked of politics, that much was certain, and for a brief moment the demon wondered if he hadn’t actually been better off in the snow. 

Several tall figures with impressive beards strode past him then, their uniforms just as starched and unbloodied as the guards in the hall. Wordlessly, each one marched up to the same set of wrought iron doors, took a clipped turn, saluted, and disappeared inside one after the other. 

Crowley, curious, inched closer. 

The doors opened again and a whole roomful of voices talking at once spilled out into the corridor. Some were angry, others pleading. Yet even out of the cacophony, one or two of the loudest made their way to Crowley’s keen ear. 

“ _Zis is a joke, non? Zey should pay more, much more!”_

_“Germans ain’t even here, how’re we suppos’d to sign any o’ this without ‘em?”_

_“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!”_ Now there was a voice Crowley couldn’t ignore even if he’d tried. “ _I know it isn’t perfect, but this is a very important step towards peace, and--"_

_"We demand reparations! Zis is an outrage!"_

Angels might have been more attuned to empathy, but there were other emotions demons could sense a mile away. Despair was one. Grief, another. And both of them preceded Aziraphale out of the meeting room like the gloom before a storm. 

Unlike the soldiers before, Aziraphale wore a double breasted suit in a soft shade of not-quite white. His hair, though still curly and recognizable as ever, had been parted to one side and (Crowley had to smile at this) slicked down in a futile attempt to keep it in place. Even his bow tie had been switched out for a more respectable blue-and-gold necktie to complete the look. 

But despite his appearance (the demon would have suggested _absurd, ridiculous,_ and _downright adorable_ , in that order), Aziraphale was clearly troubled as he paced up and down the hall, wringing his hands as he went. “I don’t understand, hasn’t there been enough fighting?” he fretted aloud. “All this business with the bombs, and they’re still not satisfied. How can humans possibly be so--” 

“Fallible?”

Aziraphale skidded to a halt. Neither he nor Crowley had seen the Archangel come into being, but suddenly there he was, standing in the middle of the corridor wearing a light, grey suit and a thin smile on his face. 

“G-Gabriel. I...wasn’t expecting you.”

“Of course not,” Gabriel chuckled, in a way that instantly made Crowley’s skin crawl. “I just thought I’d stop by and, ah, commend you on a job well done here.” 

“Job…? O-oh,” said Aziraphale, rapidly blinking away the last of his surprise. “You mean the peace accords? Well, they’re rather not finished just yet, but I believe, given a little more time, I’ll be able to persuade the French President to--” 

“Uh, sorry, no. No, I wasn’t talking about the accords.” Somehow, Gabriel had mastered the art of affecting a smile that was both disappointed and condescending at the same time. “Although, I mean, sure, good work on those, too, I guess. Someone has to do the dirty work no one else wants, right?” 

Aziraphale's soft brown eyes went round. 

“Anyway, I’m _actually_ talking about this whole war thing. The big _dubbya-dubbya-two_ , amirite? What a show. Classic good-versus-evil, and good always triumphs in the end.” 

“I...but I didn’t….” The angel began to look terribly upset as he struggled for the right words. “I don’t understand what could possibly be good about any of this. War is horrifying. It was bad enough when all the humans had were pointy sticks, but now they’re using things called ‘biochemicals’ and ‘atom bombs’ and, and….” He threw his hands up in the air in desperation. “Innocent people have died, _millions_ of them!” 

Crowley didn’t think all of the demons in the whole of Hell could have cared less than the Archangel Fucking Gabriel in that moment. “Well, _yeah_ ,” he shrugged, as though Aziraphale had just informed him that the sky was blue and fish can swim. “And their souls will be welcomed with open arms at the Gates of Heaven. Most of them.” A speck of lint was flicked from his sleeve. “The believers, at any rate.” 

“But…! You can’t…!” He was going to cry. His voice wavered, his bottom lip was trembling. His hands clenched into fists at either side. “You just _can’t!_ ” 

“It’s done.” Gabriel gave the angel’s shoulder a hearty pat, already walking past him toward where Crowley, out of place and time, watched in disbelief. “I'm told you’ll be commended upstairs for this, Aziraphale. Outstanding performance. We'll be expecting great things from you in the future, too. You’re one of our best, I’ve always said so.” 

There was that smile again. Fake, slimey, just before he vanished with a twinkling of light. Crowley was glad to see him leave. It was angels like Gabriel that had made him question the system in the first place, made him ask why it was the “good guys” who were often the biggest dicks in the universe. It certainly made the great plan a hell of a lot more ineffable, in his opinion. 

But while Gabriel was gone and the hallway had fallen quiet in his wake, Aziraphale still seemed rooted in place. Shocked, no doubt, and understandably angry. The fists at his sides shook with a rage Crowley would never have thought the angel capable of possessing, and when he spoke his voice was thick with hurt. 

“You...you… _bastard!_ ” 

Yellow eyes nearly popped out of the demon's head. 

“Damn your plans, and damn you all! Why must you permit them to suffer so? It’s cruel, it’s heartless!” Aziraphale slumped down onto a bench between two plain, wooden pillars and dropped his face into his hands. For a long moment he stayed like that, sobbing as dark clouds of grief, of guilt, gathered around. 

It was the most heartbreaking sight Crowley had ever seen. “Oh…. Oh, angel,” he whispered, taking a step closer to his friend. “Aziraphale, hey….” 

He couldn’t really touch him. This was a memory, after all, it had already happened, the script was already set. Like being inside of a really old film, which Crowley had tried once after _Ben-Hur_ had been rereleased on DVD (he’d really missed the chariot races, he couldn’t help himself). So he knew that when he laid his hand on the angel’s shoulder, and Aziraphale lifted his head in the same moment, that it was merely coincidence.

He caught his breath anyway. 

“It’s so unfair,” Aziraphale said, as he turned his bright, weeping eyes to the Heavens above. “Me, one of the so-called _best?_ Because You think I started a world war? You couldn’t be more wrong. Seems to me that all the truly best angels, those are the ones who already Fell.” 

There was no time to cry out. No time to find his footing again before the hallway was pulling away and the memory was casting him out. Crowley’s mouth opened, soundlessly he shouted for his angel who was growing smaller, farther away, until he could no longer see him through his tears. Something burst inside his chest and then, as he had so many thousands of years ago, Crowley felt himself tumbling backwards, free-falling, only this time it was right out of Aziraphale’s head. 

* * *

**[Some time after the Beginning, Heaven]**

Lightning crackled all around. The clouds, usually a blanket of pure, comforting white, rumbled and lashed overhead in shades of black and flame. Everywhere Aziraphale looked, there was only darkness, only anger. 

It felt like a memory within a memory, and it chilled him to his core.

This moment had been given many names over time. The War in Heaven. The Revolt of the Angels. The Sons of Light Against the Sons of Darkness. But what it boiled down to was a beef between Lucifer and God that the whole of Heaven had accidentally gotten swept up in. None of them knew what would happen when the battle was done. Otherwise, Aziraphale lamented, they might have never gotten involved at all. 

But if Crowley had brought him here, to witness this again, it could only mean one thing.

Even now, he could hear the sounds of fighting in the distance. Swords clashing, metal ringing out, cries to rally one host of angels or the other. Michael would be leading the charge beneath the burning skies soon, and then it would all be over. Those who revolted would be struck down from Heaven, the clouds would return to their normal, cheerful state. The rest of them would go back to work as if nothing had changed - though, of course, everything had. 

Aziraphale had to find Crowley before that happened. He had to, _well_ , maybe he couldn’t actually _stop_ him, but he had to at least try. So he picked a direction and took off running in it.

“Crowley! _Er,_ Crawley!” What in Heaven's name was he calling himself these days? "It’s me, I'm here! Tell me where you are, please! Give me a sign!" 

Lightning cracked overhead, a burst of too-bright light that rippled through the shadows. It illuminated the path in front of the angel - the path to the battlefield - where he saw, like a statue in the night, a lone figure standing. 

Countless millennia had not changed him much. Sure, his auburn hair would come to grow a shade or two darker over the eons, his face a little more weary for the tribulations of Hell. And, well, his wings would eventually lose their pearly shine, too. But the angel who stood before Aziraphale now was, without a doubt, still very much _his_ Crowley. 

“Oh, thank goodness I found you. Quickly,” Aziraphale said, racing up to his friend’s side where he stood overlooking the war. “We need to get out of here. Look, Crowley, something very bad is about to happen, and if you stay in this spot, you’re going to end up--”

“Look at it. All the bloodshed.” 

Crowley spoke with a heaviness Aziraphale had never heard before. All his anguish, all his confusion poured out in that lonely place to a God who may or may not have even been listening. “We just…. We just asked questions. What’s so wrong with that? Just questions, and somehow it’s all come to _this?_ To slaughtering each other in bloody paradise?” 

“C-Crowley, maybe you shouldn’t, uhm, _provoke_ Her?” 

“This is wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong. I mean,” the distraught angel went on, gesturing with his sword in the direction of the fighting. “What kind of omnipotent creator _enjoys_ letting its creations die? Is this somehow a part of the big, mysterious Plan, too? Your great, bleeding, _ineffably stupid Plan?!”_

 _Oh, dear,_ Aziraphale gulped. _Now he’s gone and done it._

The clouds beneath their feet began to rumble, rapid bursts of light shooting past in every direction. Chaos was swirling to life all around. Numbly, Aziraphale thought he heard the call of the Archangels’ trumpets, and the clattering of a thousand swords being thrown to the ground in defeat. But as far as he was concerned, the real battle was taking place right before his eyes. 

“Crowley. Crowley, shut up and listen to me, we must _go! Now!_ ” 

The angel, Crowley or Crawley or whatever he preferred to be called, lifted his head to the flaming sky. Opened his deep, beautiful, golden eyes wide in defiance, and said sadly, “So, this is Your answer.” More lightning flashed, more thunder growled. “For our crime of free thought, You sentence us to burn for all eternity. Lovely, that’s just _lovely._ ” 

As a hole began to open in the floor of dark clouds, Aziraphale was forced to scramble out of the way. The gap grew bigger, opened wider, and to his dismay Crowley was suddenly all the way on the opposite side. Black, empty space awaited within the precipice between them. Space. Stars. The universe, and somewhere far down below, the tiny, newborn Earth. 

Aziraphale struggled to keep his distance. Crowley, on the other hand, peered right down into it. “You win, God.”

_No. No, don’t. Please…._

“We don’t need Your bleeding light anyway.” 

“Crowley, _STOP!”_

There was a moment - the briefest space between the thudding heartbeats in Aziraphale’s chest - where their eyes met. Where Crowley could almost see him, impossible as it was, through space and time. Right before he cast aside his blade. Right before he took a step. His sword sparked where it fell, as though in striking the ground he had delivered his own final blow; for it was then that he went tumbling over the edge of the clouds. 

" _CROWLEY!!"_

He hadn't quite leapt, but neither had he truly Fallen. As Aziraphale watched in horror, clinging to the clouds above, he knew even in the face of destruction that Crowley had made a choice. Over fear, he'd chosen resolve. Chosen to make himself in his own image, neither angel nor demon but something in between. A frightening decision, perhaps, but the first one he could truly say was his own. 

Thus Crowley, beautiful and glorious as he was - _as he would always be_ \- Fell from Heaven. And with only the smallest amount of hesitation, Aziraphale leapt in after him. 

* * *

* * *

He opened his eyes to the sight of his own face staring back at him. They were back on the bench, back in the park surrounded by the sounds of summer: ducks splashing, children playing in a fountain; an ice cream cart rolling by on rattling wheels. Here in the present, no more than a heartbeat had passed since Crowley had reached out and taken his hand. Yet to Aziraphale, it felt an entire lifetime. 

_Crowley._ Emotion caught in the back of his throat, welled up in the corners of yellow, slitted eyes. _Dear Crowley._

What could he say? What words could possibly express the depth of what his new perspective meant to him? How could he make Crowley understand these _feelings_? 

As it turned out, he didn't need words. 

The single tear that rolled down his cheek was swept away. Crowley's touch lingered there, his fingers cool against warm skin, and all either of them could have said was simply.‥understood. Aziraphale felt it as plainly as ever. _Knew_ now what it truly meant when Crowley smiled at him, radiating with an affection that rivaled the Heavens. 

And that smile, the one filled with genuine, unabashed love, suited the angelic face he wore better than any other.

"I think it worked," Aziraphale said shyly, removing his sunglasses long enough to wipe the tears from the lenses. "You look more like me already."

Crowley's hand remained on his cheek. "Can't say the same for you, angel. You've got my eyes all puffy and red. Not my style at all." 

"Oh, _hush._ I think we both know whose fault that is."

"Here," the demon continued, and reached into a pocket inside his jacket to retrieve a black handkerchief. A tiny red snake was embroidered in one corner. "Hang onto it. I mean, y’know, for the aesthetic."

"You have a kind heart, Crowley…," the angel sighed happily. 

And for a moment, as they both sat there holding onto the handkerchief, neither quite ready to pull away just yet, Crowley looked to be genuinely pleased with the compliment.

Then, very suddenly, he cleared his throat, and slipped back into character with a surprisingly effective pout. "No, no. _You're_ Crowley, _I'm_ Aziraphale. Best not to mix that up again, or there'll be a _dreadful_ amount of paperwork." 

Aziraphale crinkled up his rather sharp nose. “I _do not_ sound like that.” 

“Eh, but...you kinda _do_ , though. Ice cream?” 

“Ah, that’d be lovely, yes.” The angel brushed off his lap, then stood up with a pointed glare in Crowley’s direction. “Name one time - one _single time_ \- I have ever used that tone.” 

“Uh, try every day since _ever_.” 

They strode off together, the angel (disguised as a demon, and with noticeably more slither in his step) with his arm linked through the other's (a demon, disguised as an angel), toward the ice cream cart, bickering good-naturedly as they went. 

To the ducks, who'd been watching the whole affair from the river, it seemed a missed opportunity on the odd couple's part. After all, if they'd only known the right way to ask, those feathered masters of the craft could have saved them a lot of trouble with their double act. 

Oh, well. Maybe next time, they'd remember to bring some goddamned bread. 

**Author's Note:**

> A/Ns: 
> 
> 1- Crowley canonically takes credit for iPods, according to Neil Gaiman himself: https://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/15162006933/crowley-aziraphales-new-years-wishes-from
> 
> 2- Crowley's memories start at the present and work backwards, whereas Aziraphale's start from the beginning of his time on Earth and go chronologically forward. This was intentional, as it shows that Crowley has grown more comfortable with himself over time, while Aziraphale tends to prefer the way things used to be 
> 
> 3- Fans have pointed out that Aziraphale has original copies of Oscar Wilde manuscripts, which may have only been given to lovers or people Wilde cared for deeply. The Aziraphale/Wilde ship is a real thing. 
> 
> 4- The car chase in Birmingham is a reference to Peaky Blinders. Crowley probably pissed off Arthur Fookin Shelby. That's a crossover I'd pay to see. 
> 
> 5- Paris Peace Accords, as overseen by Mr. A. Z. Fell, the advisor to someone important no one had ever actually heard of. Canonically, Aziraphale isn't supposed to have said any curse words for centuries before 'bugger' and 'fuck' in that order, but hey. If an angel swears in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it really count? 
> 
> 6- I'm worried people not might like the idea of Crowley kind of leaping instead of Falling, as I've portrayed here. Personally, I think it fits his character. I have no doubt he would regret it later, at least to some degree, but he also very clearly disagreed with so many things Heaven did that I can't see him actively wanting to be part of the whole Plan. Besides, Crowley can be impulsive and dramatic, and I think if he knew he was going to be cast out anyway, he'd want to Go With StyleTM 
> 
> 7- The ducks are the real main characters here, they just didn't get paid enough (read, fed) to appear more often 


End file.
